Brianna Panella Guzman Facebook ad: “They Said I Wasn't Their Responsibility”

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956233930204688

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When I was nine, my adoptive parents finalized their divorce and decided they would pass me back and forth once a year. “I just changed jobs,” my adoptive mother said, pointing at the boxes beside me. “I don’t want the distraction.” “For the first year, you’ll stay with your uncle.” She said it with the detached air of someone getting rid of an old piece of furniture. Ten minutes earlier, her face had been flushed as she fought with my adoptive father over her biological son. Their son, they agreed, had to live with both of them. He had to have his own bedroom, permanently reserved for him, in each of their new houses. When it came to me, they added only one rule. Every year on Labor Day, at eight in the morning, I would switch houses. Everything I owned had to fit into two clear plastic storage bins. The agreement was stamped by the court. From then on, whenever one of them didn’t want me, they could just point to the paper and say: “This year, she’s not my responsibility.” Once they were done, they took their son out to celebrate. At the door, he turned back and asked, “What about my sister?” My adoptive father only said, “It’s all in the paperwork.” I gripped the handles of my boxes so hard my nails nearly snapped. So that was what a divorce meant. Some people came out of it with two homes. I wasn’t even worth a permanent drawer. I chased perfect grades. I tried to be easy, to be good. I never let myself own more than what fit in two boxes. I thought if I made myself trouble-free enough, someone would finally hate the thought of handing me over. That illusion lasted until college applications, when a text message popped up on my phone: [Stay in-state. It’ll be easier for your family to take care of you.] I deleted every in-state option and opened the full scholarship offer from more than two thousand miles away. [I choose the University of Washington.] If this family was determined to ship me off once a year anyway— then this time, I would send myself somewhere they could never touch. … My college counselor emailed again soon after: [Have you discussed this with your family?] I replied: [No. But I’m eighteen. I can sign my own legal documents, and I can take responsibility for my decisions.] Tyler leaned over my shoulder and saw the University of Washington crest on my screen. “You really want out that badly?” He was right. I was tired of packing boxes every Labor Day, tired of standing at the door waiting for the handoff, and even more tired of having to confirm, every single year, who was “responsible” for me. Susan frowned. “Naomi, you have no idea how hard adulthood is.” “You’re grown up now. We can’t keep revolving around you the way we did when you were little.” Daniel immediately chimed in. “She’s just too sensitive. Last time I missed her state science competition awards ceremony, didn’t she sulk about it for days?” “I didn’t sulk.” “Oh, you didn’t?” Susan sneered. “You walked around wit......

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They Said I Wasn't Their Responsibility